I Was Once Yours
Blood: a pearl droplet on the meat of his thumb. Glass: a sliver, imperceptible aside from subtle pressure between two layers of skin. Teeth: parallel to the wound, sucking at the shard. It is no use. Artavan swears amid the percussion of the glass grinder crashing to the floor. A pocket watch in his leather apron chirps: two hours. The blood brings relief that it exists at all. It is him, small red pieces of him, free to bead and run. He checks his reflection in the polished lighthouse lens. A russet smear on his front teeth. He moves his…